Page 57 of In Frame
“Oh my God, Mum.”
“As long as you’re happy and they treat you right, that’s the important thing.”
“Thanks,” Leo said into his arms and the table, and then looked up. His parents were still holding hands and radiating fondness at him. He took that in. Sat up more. “I, ah. I’m still sorting it out, but I think…probably bisexual? Or pan. It’s definitely not all the men all the time from now on, Mum, thankyou for that. Though actually it kind of is, isn’t it? One specific man’s getting all of my time, so I suppose that works. But it’s something with room for being attracted to lots of people, and genders, I think.”
Saying so, he felt like himself: back to humor, back to teasing, but even more than that. He’d said it aloud, to his parents; something in his chest felt new and raw and fragile and inexpressibly overjoyed.
“Oh,solovely,” approved his mother. “And, you know, it’s not as if that’s not respectable; look at William Shakespeare, he liked both the women and the men, and he did fairly well for himself, didn’t he?”
Leo, caught between laughter and a sigh, got out, “Thanks, Mum, glad to know you think I’m on the same level as Shakespeare.”
“You’ve certainly got better hair. Though we’ve still got some pictures of you with that unfortunate bleach-blond—”
“We don’t talk about those pictures! I made you pinky swear, Mum!”
“So.” His father leaned in, intrigued. “You said you met someone. His name’s Sam, is it? Tell us about him.”
“Sam, yes. He’s…” How to even start? How to explain Sam’s profession, Sam’s kindness, Sam’s ability to see right into Leo’s heart and know exactly what he’d always been needing to hear?
He said, finally, “He would like your vase. Or at least he’d understand why I like it. He makes me feel like smiling all the time.”
His mother’s expression grew softer, comprehending: happy for him.
“That,” his father said, “sounds about right, doesn’t it, Harry? Tell us more. When can we meet him?”
“We’ve only just started dating!”
“Do you know whether he likes opera? I’ve got some spare tickets toLa Cenerentola, if you’d like some evening excursion ideas—”
“If the two of you want to come round for supper first, I’ll make that blackberry sage sauce and roast chicken, and your mother will promise not to greet him with a rapier in hand, after that poor girl looked so startled last time, so just let us know when!”
“Behave yourselves,” Leo complained, but he was grinning: he couldn’t not. Textured gold spilled from familiar lamps, and the night tasted like apricot and ginger pudding, and he wanted all of that, wanted to bring Sam here into the land of blackberries and rapiers and love.
He’d call later, after he got home. He’d hear Sam’s voice and ask how the day was going out in Los Angeles with Colby and Jason, and Sam would hear him, every bit of apprehension and relief and profound emotion Leo didn’t say aloud.
Benvolio reappeared to beg for any last scraps, purring. Leo fed him a tiny piece of venison. “I think he’d love seeing you pose with a sword, in fact, Mum. So, first of all, he’s American—from Las Vegas—and he’s a photographer, a brilliant one—” Something of an omission there; he didn’t want his parents to worry about Sam’s profession and tabloid gossip.
But every word he’d said was true. Sam was a photographer, and Sam was brilliant, and Leo was proud to be with him.
So that was that. And that was and would be real. “Here, I’ll show you some pictures he took of me and my house, look at how splendid the light is through the window, in this one…”
Chapter 6: Los Angeles
The elevator proved to be smooth and swift. Sam arrived in the lobby ten minutes early—11:30, Jason’d said—and hovered beside a potted fern and a sculpted column, uncertain. Find someplace to sit? Look around? What if Jason was also here early, and was waiting for him? What if Jason couldn’t find him? Was the polished receptionist considering his scuffed Converse and several-years-old jacket and deciding whether to summon hotel security to deal with this person who plainly didn’t belong?
He inched closer to the fern. It provided no assistance. It knew it had a place here.
He wished he could feel that certain. He kind of wanted to put a hand on the ornate pot and soak up some self-assurance. But then he’d end up looking like a person who’d come into a fancy hotel lobby to fondle the foliage. And the receptionist really would call security.
He leaned a shoulder against the decorative column, experimentally. Casual. Okay. Working so far. He could watch the lobby doors from here.
A car engine purred. A streak of silver flowed up the drive. Sam did not know much about cars beyond the basics, but he could tell this one was a Ferrari, maybe from the nineteen-sixties, and beautiful. A movie star of cars. A glory of classic grace.
The owner must love it, he decided. Visible in the care and the age. Felt good, seeing that: like a little bit of optimism in the world.
The car door opened. The world’s most famous pair of shoulders emerged into sunshine. Sam leaned more weight against his sympathetic pillar, and forgot to breathe.
Jason Mirelli, in jeans and a dark green shirt thatwas failing to adequately contain his expanse of chest, said something to the valet, laughed, took off his sunglasses. The valet very obviously admired the car some more.
